Lady Midnight (10 page)

"Mother, this is Mrs. Kate Brown," Mr. Lindley said. "Mrs. Brown, my mother, the Dowager Lady Darcy."

Kate dropped into a neat curtsy, just the right depth to pay homage to Lady Darcy's station. All the infinite varieties of curtsies had been a very valuable part of her education. "How do you do, Lady Darcy?" she said quietly.

Lady Darcy inclined her head regally. "I am glad you are here, Mrs. Brown. I have great hopes that you can help my poor daughter." Christina gave a most inelegant snort and slumped down in her chair. "As you can see, you have your work cut out for you."

"I'm sure Mrs. Brown is more than up to the challenge, Mother," Mr. Lindley said. He gave Kate a surreptitious wink, a teasing gesture that made her long to break into laughter amid the heavy solemnity of this room. "She declared earlier that she could make our Christina into a Diamond."

"Indeed? A Diamond?" Lady Darcy arched one dark, delicately winged brow. "That I should be very grateful to see, Mrs. Brown."

Kate was saved from making a reply—and from ruing her earlier arrogant words!—when the drawing room door opened and a nursemaid in starched white cap and apron appeared. By the hand she held a tiny fairy-child, surely fresh from the depths of some enchanted forest.

It had to be little Miss Amelia, Michael Lindley's daughter. She didn't look a great deal like her father—her hair was sun gold where his was dark, and fell over her shoulders in a riot of ringlets. She was very small, even for her young age, and thin in her pale pink muslin dress. But her eyes were the same clear sky blue as his, large and luminous in her rounded, sweet face.

Kate smiled at her, hoping she seemed welcoming and friendly. Miss Amelia hung back, one little hand tangled in her nurse's skirts. One long curl was twisted around her finger. Those blue eyes were wide and wary.

Kate had never been a woman who cooed over children. For one thing, she had not been much in their company. The few friends of her mother who
were
parents kept their offspring firmly out of sight. For another, children were simply not the most adept at conversation. They knew nothing of art or poetry, and usually had sticky little paws that stained silk skirts and broke jeweled necklaces. And the children usually sensed this awkwardness in her. Even the tiniest infants howled when placed near her.

Governess was perhaps not the best choice of vocation for her—Kate knew that very well. But she could do nothing else. She would not,
could
not, go back to the profession she was raised for. And she knew even less about cooking or cleaning than she did about children. And no position as lady's companion came open at the agency while she was in London. So governess it had to be, despite any qualms.

Yet right now, as she stared down at this quiet little girl, Kate wanted so very much for Amelia to like her.

"Amelia, dearest," Mr. Lindley said, his voice full of tenderness and care. He swept past Kate and knelt down beside the girl. Amelia smiled at him from behind her twisted hair.

"Now, rosebud," her father said gently but firmly as he reached up to take her hand in his and thus remove her hand from her hair. "You know you're not supposed to twist your hair anymore."

The girl nodded, her bright curls bouncing like happy little sunbeams.

"There is someone here for you to meet. Mrs. Brown, who has come all the way from London to be your governess. Remember?" Another nod. Mr. Lindley took her by the hand and led her over to where Kate stood, feeling as stiff and frozen as a Roman statue. "Mrs. Brown, may I present my daughter, Miss Amelia Lindley?"

"How do you do, Mrs. Brown?" the child spoke at last. Her voice was as delicate and otherwordly as the rest of her, gentle and quiet, touched with a slight lisp. She wouldn't look up, though; her gaze was firmly fastened to Kate's hem.

San Marco.
This was really even more nerve-racking than meeting a prince or an archbishop. At least then Kate knew what to do. "How do you do, Miss Amelia?" she answered. She decided to learn from Mr. Lindley's example, and knelt down next to the girl, bringing their eyes on a level. "I understand that you like music."

That
coaxed a spark of interest. Miss Amelia looked up at last, shyly meeting Kate's gaze. "Yes, Mrs. Brown. I'm learning to play the pianoforte."

"That is excellent, for I also love music very much. I see there is a pianoforte right over there. Perhaps you would be so kind as to play a song for me? I would enjoy that very much."

Amelia glanced up uncertainly at her father, who gave her a reassuring nod. "Of course, Mrs. Brown," she whispered. "I've just learned a new piece."

Kate followed the child over to the instrument, trying not to sigh aloud in relief. If she was concentrating on Miss Amelia's music, she wouldn't have to decide what to say just yet.

Especially to Mr. Lindley himself. Or
Michael,
as she couldn't help but think of him. He was indeed well named for the archangel.

As she helped the child arrange her sheet music, Kate took a surreptitious peek at the people still grouped by the fireplace. Lady Darcy had at last turned her cool scrutiny away, and was working on a piece of embroidery. Christina appeared to be thinking of something far away. Daydreaming about her plants, no doubt.

But Michael—ah, he still watched her, his eyes slightly narrowed, arms folded across his chest.

Their encounter on the moor had discomposed her, more than she liked to admit even to herself. All her life, she had been taught to read men's thoughts and desires without revealing any of her own. But Michael Lindley was unreadable. He looked like the veriest Renaissance god, a man every woman would swoon over, a man to whom all the pleasures of the world were freely available. Yet he chose to be a gentleman farmer, to live with his family in isolated Yorkshire. He was not like the men who had flocked to her in her old life. He was not like anyone she had ever met before.

He was kind to her, and charming even, with an easy manner. But there was something behind all that, something buried in the depths of his eyes, shadowed and hidden. Michael Lindley was a mystery. And Kate
hated
mysteries, except for her own.

She also hated the way she felt when he watched her. No—
hated
was the wrong word. She felt flustered, flushed, unsure, and very young. She felt like all her careful, practical poise was slipping out of her control, leaving her awkward, unprotected.

He saw too much. Could he see through her flimsy disguise?

Kate just couldn't let that happen. She
wouldn't.
She already liked this strange, cold, ancient house. She liked Lady Christina, and this golden little elf-child next to her. She didn't want to leave them yet.

She settled beside Amelia on the bench, listening to the child's surprisingly competent rendition of "Fur Elise." She focused entirely on the music, but was still fully aware of the instant when Michael turned his regard away from her. The warm, sunny tingle at the nape of her neck faded, leaving only the marble chill of the air.

Kate took a breath in relief. But nothing could quell the strange, brief pang of disappointment.

* * *

This was Michael's favorite time of day.

Dinner was over, the ladies were retired to their chambers, and Amelia was safely tucked up in bed. The house was quiet, like a fire banked down to slumber again until the morning. His work was done for the day; there were no servants or tenants needing to meet with him, no fields to be inspected or quarrels between Christina and their mother to be settled.

He liked to come out to the terrace off of the back of the house, even on cool nights like this one. He could look out over the gardens, all sculpted shadows beneath the moon, and just breathe in the silence. It reminded him of just why he had come to this land—so far from his old wild London life—in the first place. Why he stayed here, watching the years wax and wane. It was the peace.

Sometimes, it felt almost as if Caroline were next to him in the darkness, a ghostly wisp of golden hair and gentle smiles. He would talk to her in his mind, telling her of how beautiful their daughter was. Of how sorry his heart remained for all he had put her through in their too-short marriage—always sorry.

Tonight, though, his wife's pale spirit was nowhere to be found. His mind was filled with the dark, rose-scented presence of Mrs. Kate Brown.

Michael reached for the snifter of brandy resting on the stone balustrade and took a deep, bracing swallow of the amber liquid. It was smooth and warm, with a sharp bite underneath, but it did nothing to erase the images in his mind. Mrs. Brown, solemn and attentive as she listened to Amelia at the pianoforte and asked his daughter questions about her music. Mrs. Brown laughing, her too-serious face momentarily young and radiant as she chuckled at one of Christina's jests. The way Mrs. Brown gave a quick, trembling start, like a wary, exotic bird when his hand accidentally brushed her arm at the dinner table. Mrs. Brown's dark eyes gone suddenly sad and very faraway as she stared into the fire during after-dinner tea.

She was a very intriguing woman—there was no doubt about
that.
And it wasn't just her beauty, which she tried to hide with plain gowns and severe coiffures, or her lilting, musical accent. Her clear eyes and smooth, fair skin said she was very young, perhaps not even as old as the twenty-two she claimed with the agency. But she seemed far too unhappy, almost melancholy, for a young lady whose life lay before her in all its possibilities. It was almost as if she was afraid to smile, to laugh—afraid to be close to him.

Michael took another swallow of his brandy, turning the crystal snifter in his hand as he considered the enigma of Mrs. Brown. Perhaps she was simply afraid of him because of his scars and limp. Some young ladies were—he was resigned to that by now. But that didn't seem to be the problem with Mrs. Brown. She
would
look at him directly, just not very often, and there was the mark on her own face. No, she seemed leery of all the world, on edge somehow. And sad. So sad.

Was it the loss of her husband, Mr. Brown—whoever
he
had been? Had she loved him and relied on him so very much that his death made her suspicious of all the world and everyone in it?

Somehow the thought of her deep love for the mysterious Mr. Brown stirred the embers of a forgotten temper deep inside Michael. His fingers curled tightly about the snifter, until the thick crystal creaked. Mr. Brown was surely
not
a good husband. He left his young wife alone in the world with nothing, forcing her to make her living as a governess.

Not that
he
should throw any stones about being a bad husband, Michael reflected bitterly. He had been the worst of the lot, marrying a lady of Caroline's sweetness and then leading her a merry dance into doom.

But whatever it was that etched such melancholy over Mrs. Brown's beautiful face, he wanted to erase it. To somehow make things better, as once he had made them so much worse. He wanted to make Mrs. Brown's sadness vanish, to show her how much life could still offer her.

Once, he could have. He could have showered her with jewels far finer than her mysterious, hidden brooch, diamonds and satin gowns, roses and houses and carriages. Not now. Now he was a most respectable gentleman, with an estate and a family and a position in the neighborhood. And she was his governess. His
respectable
governess.

The governess who flinched with surprise when his hand brushed her arm. His enigma of a governess, who hid a sapphire brooch among her plain garments.

Michael drank down the last of his brandy. A shadow drifted over the moon, reminding him of how late it was. He should be thinking of retiring. It promised to be a busy day tomorrow, as every day was at Thorn Hill, especially in the spring.

But as the shadow moved away from the silvery greenish moonlight, his attention was caught by a movement in the garden below. Someone strolled along the narrow paths between the flower beds, drifting ghostlike in the night.

Christina? It would be just like her to slip out of her chamber in the middle of the night to muck about in the gardens. This figure wasn't digging, though, just walking. And on the breeze, he heard a snatch of an Italian song.

"Tra le braccia, lo sen a e lungamente, lo bacia in bocca."

The mezzo-soprano tones were soft and sweet, plaintive, as alluring as a sea siren's call.
Kate Brown.
It had to be. Wandering all alone in the night, singing as if to summon the spirits.

He really should just go inside the house, Michael mused. Leave her to whatever thoughts she nursed in her nocturnal perambulations. It wasn't his place, or his nature, to intrude on her, despite his urges to erase all her sadness. He knew all too well that some sorrows should be left between one person and the moon. Some hurts were too deep to share.

But Caroline's ghost felt very far away tonight, and his own heart was lonely. And he had never been good at resisting the siren's song. He abandoned his empty snifter on the balustrade and strode down the steps into the garden.

Chapter 5